The Worst Mistake
by cjdreams98
Summary: What should have been a routine injury sends Peter spiralling. Fast. Can Tony save him? TW: suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, torture; can be graphic so be careful if those issues or descriptions of injuries bother you. Set before IW. I'm always here to talk - reviews and messages always welcome:)
1. Chapter 1

Peter Parker had, arguably, made his fair share of mistakes by the age of 16. No one was perfect, and though he was still working on forgiving himself his... human flaws, that applied to super-human freak-oid teenagers as well. He always tried to do better, be better - which was why he was so pissed off with himself when he heard about the pile-up on the bridge.

He should've been on patrol, he should've spotted and webbed the three men that chased and kidnapped a driver, eventually crashing their van and causing estimated 30-vehicle collision 50 feet above a river.

He should've been there - and he would've been, if Tony hadn't dropped by and taken his suit to work on some upgrades overnight.

'Thanks a lot, Mr Stark.' Peter muttered, pacing distractedly around his room, knowing perfectly well that the only person he was angry with was himself. He should have never agreed with Tony in the first place, but he did, and now people were hurt.

That was on him.

Flushed with guilt and shame, Peter had to stop himself from literally climbing the walls. He couldn't stand it. He was going mad - and that, he supposed was why it happened. Where it all began.

He was crazed with guilt, so even though it was 3AM and May would freak out, and Mr Stark would be furious if they ever found out, he dug out his first suit, the makeshift disguise he'd worked on within a week of Bens death, and headed out.

That was the worst mistake he ever made.

Even as he slipped through his window and worked his way towards the bridge, Peter marvelled that he was ever able to work like this. Nothing fit right, and though he'd denied it when Tony questioned him, he really couldn't see at all.

But he was still Spider-Man, and he still made it to the bridge where authorities were beginning to arrive on the scene. He still beat them to the smouldering van, and had fought and restrained the three criminals before anyone else could make it through the wreckage.

That should've been that, all in a night's work - except for the bright, neat gash on the inside of his left wrist. Sometime during the fight, his suit had torn, the cheap fabric quickly exposing his skin to injury. It wouldn't have happened if he'd been wearing the suit Tony had made him, and it wasn't even that big a deal really. He spun a bandage around his arm (he'd long ago learnt that webs were better than gauze for closing and healing wounds) and it had healed by the end of the week.

It was just...

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

The tear in his pale skin, gaping, gushing. The slow, sticky, flow of blood, surprisingly dark except where it stained his fingertips with screaming scarlet. The throbbing pain, the warm and sickly dizziness that made his stomach squirm, not unpleasantly.

He couldn't stop thinking about how much he'd liked it.

And it didn't bother him a bit - because here was the other thing about Peter, the thing he'd never admit to; he desperately wanted to die. For almost as long as he could remember, he'd felt the need like an ache in his bones, a demanding, hungry instinct that told him he wasn't meant to be. Over the last few years, it had only gotten stronger, and the only constant in his life had been his plans to end it. His notes, written and rewritten and discarded, inadequate. The daydreams he could never stop, where each question was helpfully ticked off before he even had to think: _when_? While May's out. _How_? Pills. A blade. A rope. An 'accident'. _Why_? Well. Where to begin?

It was a reflex, like breathing - except easier. More natural. The only reason he was still here was because he wasn't sure exactly how far he'd have to go to outpace his own body, the advanced healing, the strength, the instinct that screamed danger.

Until now.

He'd felt it, how easy it would have been to extend the wound, or leave it open. It would have worked. The amount of blood he'd lost in seconds, the wooziness... Even the pain had seemed natural, welcome.

The thought sent a thrill through his veins and he knew he was well and truly screwed.

In just a few days, he'd set his date, brought a pack of straight blades (cash, baseball cap; no trace), and Peter felt a delicious calm spread into every corner of his life. He was so happy, so content - and the funniest thing was, no one knew why. It was his secret, and he couldn't help feeling pleased with himself for keeping it.

Finally, everything made sense.

He said his goodbyes, visited the people he wanted to, and made sure he gave his first Spider-Man mask to Ned, who was too excited to even think of questioning why... it was all going perfectly.

On his last day (still not a word from anyone), Peter came home from school with flowers for May. He cooked her dinner and sat down to watch a few hours of trashy TV with her before she headed out to work. He made sure to give her a hug, and told her he loved her, as he usually would. As soon as she was gone, he scribbled a quick note, left it on his pillow, and worked his way to his chosen spot.

He knew it was cliché, but Peter's favourite place in the city was a skyscraper overlooking the harbour. He remembered climbing it the first day he'd fully explored his powers, dancing across the rooftop, yelling up at a cloudless blue sky as the wind tore at his hair.

It was as good a place as any to go, he thought - and he was so focused on getting there that it wasn't until he'd arrived that he remembered something. One final loose end to tie.

Mr Stark.

He'd meant to visit Tony, maybe spend an afternoon in his workshop, chatting tech and Avengers and anything so that the 'goodbye, Mr Stark; thank you for everything' was wrapped in a comforting package of snark and ease. Not noticeable right away (no need to ring alarm bells now), but there if and when it was needed.

He'd just never got around to it - and now he didn't know what to do. He wasn't about to rearrange everything, delay further, but he couldn't go ahead and leave things like this. Tony had done too much for him; he deserved a goodbye at least.

Trying to ignore his sudden queasiness, Pete picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Tony's number. He paused a final second before dialling, loathe for anything to go wrong now. To his relief, there was no answer.

'Hi, you've reached Tony Stank's phone,' it was Rhodey's voice; Peter almost laughed in spite of himself. 'He can't come to the phone right now, but Mr Stank will get back to you as soon as he can. Please leave a message for Tony Stank after the beep.'

A quick, metallic screech.

Peter took a breath to steady himself.

'Hey Mr Stark, it's Peter. Parker. I just wanted to call and say... well. Thank you for everything. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope I made you proud. Or at least... I don't know. I'm sorry. May will explain everything I guess. Um. I can't think of anything else to say Okay. Bye, Mr Stark.'

And just like that, the last string tying him to this world was cut. Peter felt a lazy smile creep across his face as he reached in his pocket for a blade and carefully aligned it with a pulse point just below the base of his thumb.

Not so far away, there was a horrific crash in Tony Stark's workshop as he sent a toolbox flying. He'd been busy with the kids suit, having kept it longer than necessary for his own peace of mind, so he screened the call. Just once, he thought, he would allow himself to call the kid back in a minute or two; there was no way Peter would be on duty without a disguise - he'd be fine. Except that wasn't the case. He'd heard every word Peter said, and he knew exactly what was about to happen.

The only question was, could he find him in time?


	2. Chapter 2

Within seconds of hearing Peter's message, before he even had time to register what he was doing, Tony was suited up and tearing across the night sky. He didn't know where Peter was. He didn't know (or want to think about) why he wasn't picking up the phone. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to find the kid as soon as possible, and he was so focused on that one thought that he almost jumped out of his skin when Friday piped up.

'Systems detect a heart rate of 158 beats per minute. Is everything alright boss?'

'I don't think so. Get me Peter's location and patch me through to May Parker.'

'Mr Parker's suit is in the compound, boss.'

'Yes, Friday, I know that! Track his cell, run CCTV, check Twitter, I don't care how you do it, just find him!'

'Location measures in progress boss. Calling May Parker.'

'Come on, come on, come on...' Tony muttered, trying to force himself to focus. He knew how important it was that he was quick, alert right now, but the panic made it impossible to hold onto a thought for more than a second. There was a pressure in his lungs that made him think he'd pass out before he even made it to Queens, let alone reach Peter. This was worse than Sokovia, worse than carrying a nuke on his back in New York. At least then he'd known what he was doing, had a clear choice and path. He hadn't given it a second thought until he'd (literally) crashed back to Earth and was confronted with the not-entirely-welcome fact that he was alive. That he had to survive. He would relive that terror a million times over (well, what with the… _patience, Tony; give yourself time,_ PTSD, he supposed he had done) rather than face this.

'Failed to reach May Parker. Shall I try again Boss?'

'Um, no - I want you to try Happy, Pepper, anyone, and get someone to pick her up. Tell them Peter needs her.'

'Of course, Boss. No sign of Mr Parker - the closest lead is a video posted to snapchat by HeroHunter221 half an hour ago.'

Tony's eyes flicked up to the left corner of the dashboard, which was displaying a three-second grainy clip in which a small figure bounced between two rooftops. It was captioned 'A wild Spider-Man?!'

'Zoom in.'

It was too blurry for Tony to be sure, especially without the signature red and blue suit to rely on, but it was something, and, at the moment, his best bet of finding Peter.

'Friday, get me there now.'

'Navigation systems running Boss.'

'I'm on my way kid, and I swear to God – '

But he knew Peter couldn't hear him, and there were knots in his throat, his stomach - so he stopped talking and just flew.

He knew it was his only choice.

What he didn't know was that Peter Parker had already forced a blade across his skin.

 **Sorry about the wait between chapters, thought I'd keep you in suspense a little longer;) I'd be interested to hear your thoughts so far – what do you think will happen? Will Tony reach Peter in time? Always open to any feedback and suggestions:)**


	3. Chapter 3

When he was done, Peter lay down. He swung his feet over the edge of the building and (slowly, sleepily) lifted his (torn, tattered) arms up to the sky and above his head - except he couldn't quite manage it, so he let them fall by his side.

 _I'm going to die in the T-Pose,_ he thought, and laughed giddily. Or wanted to. He was, he supposed, a bit delirious. Understandable. His arms throbbed, an ache than ran screaming along every inch of his body, and he couldn't really see much. Or hear. Everything was muted and distant. Peaceful. He felt light, calm, as long as he didn't think too hard about the hot, slick, crimson starting to coat everything. Hard to believe he'd wanted this so badly. He still did, but now... dying, and dying like this, seemed a violent means to an end maybe no more peaceful.

Stupid of him not to think just how much dying would hurt, really.

 _Peter, dear, try not to make a mess_. His mother's voice, one he wasn't even aware he remembered.

 _Sure, Mom. I'll try._

 _See you soon._

The thought made him smile as he curled onto his side and wrapped his arms across his stomach.

 **Ahhhhhh, sorry this chapter is so short, but I knew I had to go back to Peter once more before I start to answer questions and reveal what happens next – promise I won't keep you waiting much longer! As always, any feedback is more than welcome, I'd love to know what you guys think:)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Before I start this chapter, I want to give a quick shout-out to Sunnymorn and Tom Holland is my life; your reviews keep me going when I lose faith in my writing of this story:) It really means a lot to know you guys are enjoying it - I've written a few chapters in advance, so… I'll post two updates tonight, and one a day for the next week or so! Enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think!**

Tony was, for a split second, relieved.

It had taken him seven minutes and six seconds to reach Queens; two minutes eighteen seconds to find Peter's small figure on a rooftop (of course); a final four to land next to the kid - and one excruciating second of sharp relief, gone as soon as it arrived.

Peter looked like he was sleeping, wrapped up in a little ball. He was holding his sides, brown curls matted to the roof. Tony felt the ridiculous urge to nudge the kid with his boot, make some joke about being late for class - until he saw it all.

Peter's hair was slick with _blood_ , a dark pool still spreading from underneath him. It looked like the kid might have been stumbling around, because there were spurts of it everywhere, some almost ten feet from where he lay.

There was no way it was Peter's, Tony thought stupidly, in denial; it would never have fit in his tiny frame.

This was... Wanda messing with him. A nightmare. A really, _really,_ bad trip (he was completely, painfully clean). Something.

Except it wasn't, and when he finally summoned the nerve to reach down and gently push Peter onto his back, he knew his cruellest daydreams could never invent that pale face, those shredded wrists.

'Vitals. Now.' There was so much fear in that sharp voice. His voice. He was afraid, but the fear was a distant fact; Tony was numb. A mannequin over a dying kid, a kid who hurt.

How badly Peter must hurt.

'Deteriorating quickly boss; the left and right radial arteries have been severed, and there is significant damage to the median antebrachial vein on both wrists.'

'English, Friday, what do I do?'

'Haemorrhagic shock imminent, boss; you need to stop the blood loss until a surgeon can repair or ligate the vessels.'

'Right,' Tony retracted his face plate and gloves as he knelt next to Peter; it sounded simple. The kid was bleeding; contain it. Tony was not a doctor; find one. 'How long do I have?'

Silence.

'Friday, how long?'

'Five minutes.'

 _Shit._

Not so simple then.

Tony wished his suit would fit Peter; at the very least his oxygen levels and core temperature would be regulated, and the bleeding could be contained - but he was so damn _small_ it would never work. In any case, Tony could reach a hospital faster than an air ambulance would reach them, he was sure...

Working as quick as he could, Tony took the steel cuffs he used to call his suit off his own wrists and clamped them just below the crook of Peter's elbows, where he hoped they'd work as makeshift tourniquets. That was a thing, right? Something you were supposed to do in a situation like this, with a _suicidal patient_ in _critical condition_ who'd _slit his wrists_ and -

'Friday?'

...

'10 minutes'

Tony allowed himself one harsh exhale of relief. He'd brought the kid some time.

'I need the nearest hospital, and I want all emergency departments briefed and ready.'

'Done. E.T.A. three minutes, boss.'

'Make it two.' Tony demanded, scooping Peter into his arms and taking off before he could waste another second freaking out; panic was perhaps the only thing in the world Tony Stark could not afford right now.

That didn't mean he wasn't paying.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter couldn't be sure exactly what was real anymore. The deep black sky that might have been water. City lights that might have been stars. The high rush and hum of engines, and a cold wind that could have been anything, but came in bursts of red and gold. Voices he didn't recognise, too fast, too loud. The sickly ebb and flow of... pain, everywhere. A cool hand on his cheek.

He slept for what he later found out was three days.

When he woke up, he wasn't sure at first where he was. The needles in his skin, the machines he could swear were shrieking all around him, the weight on his chest, were all so alien he thought he might scream - but it all came back in one queasy rush.

He'd failed.

He was lying in a hospital bed, and by lifting his head a little, he could see the weight on his chest was May. She'd pulled a chair right next to him and must have fallen asleep, because her head was resting on his chest and her hand was on his pillow, like she'd been stroking his hair.

An intense, childish stab of affection pierced him, even as the guiltshamedisappointment stuck in his throat. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this.

'Hey Aunt May,' he tried to say, but his voice was so beyond gone he wasn't sure he'd ever been able to speak at all, so he just raised one arm (don't think about the bandage, don't think, don't look, there will be time for that later) and reached up to clumsily pat her head.

'May.'

Finally, her eyes opened, and the sheer, shining, joy on her face was so strong Peter had to look away.

'Hey, Pete,' she smiled, sitting up and taking his hand in hers, tracing circles on his palm, 'how're you feeling?'

Drained. Ashamed. So, incredibly, _sad_.

'Thirsty.' He suggested, forcing a sandpaper laugh at his own voice. He had no idea what to do, what to say. He'd spent so long wanting to die that he'd never stopped to consider what might happen if he lived.

'Here,' May said, passing him a half-empty bottle of water from her bag. It was slightly awkward getting the cap off. She kept one hand on Peter's the entire time. He thought she might never let him go. Wasn't even sure he wanted her to.

'Thanks,' he murmured, tugging at the label on the bottle. It hadn't been a lie; he was parched, and his head was throbbing, but he couldn't bring himself to drink. The bottle gave him something else to focus on at least.

'Drink something, Peter, it'll help' May implored, so he did, wondering if all their sentences would fall half-finished from now on, waiting to be picked up.

He couldn't stand it.

'What happened, Aunt May?' The bandages on his wrists made his pale skin look grimy. When had he last showered?

'I was hoping to ask you the same thing.' Came the reply, far too gentle.

That was worse.

'Don't be nice Aunt May… You should be yelling at me. Freaking out. Why aren't you freaking out?' And then he was sobbing, the breathless, runny-nose sobs of a child, and May wrapped her arms around him, whispering 'it's ok, it's ok, it's ok baby,' like her words could stitch his wrists, re-wire his brain.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know, May, I know.' He said, his sobs breaking off into shuddering breaths as he wiped his eyes and carefully pushed her up to face him. 'I'm sorry.'

But she just shook her head, brushing off his apologies, and stooped to kiss his forehead.

'Baby steps, Pete. First things first, I need to go and tell someone you're awake. I'll be back in two minutes, I promise.'

'What's step two?'

'We take it from there.' She smiled, giving his hand a squeeze and walking away.

Baby steps.

He could do that.

He would do that, for May, no matter how much he wished he'd bled out on a rooftop -

The roof.

He'd been dead. Dying. On top of a skyscraper.

For the first time since he woke up, he stopped to wonder who had found him – and so quickly, too. He should've been left for hours.

Who had peeled him off that rooftop and brought him here? Who had bothered with a screwed-up kid they could have easily ignored?

Who was it that cared?

 **Soooo…. Peter made it – but what comes next? Will he remember Tony? Where** _ **is**_ **Tony? Stay tuned…. *evil laugh***


	6. Chapter 6

Tony had no idea what to do. From the second he'd handed Peter to the emergency team at the hospital, he'd been completely and utterly lost.

He'd spoken to May just long enough to explain what he knew, which wasn't much – but breaking the news that Peter had tried to take his life was more than enough for both of them. Happy had picked her up as soon as Friday had gotten through to him with Tony's instructions, and they sat beside each other in silence while Peter was in surgery. As soon as a doctor came to tell them that Peter was in a stable condition, that the surgery had gone well, Tony had given a shaking May a quick hug and his phone number, with promises that he'd be there as soon as she needed him. _If_ she (Peter) needed him.

And then he left.

He spent the next few days in... well, a daze. Unable to sit, to sleep, he threw himself into whatever work he could find. He tracked down May's boss and talked him into giving her a month's paid leave, effective immediately, subject to extension with a phone call from Tony at any point (despite the kids whinging, Tony knew how much he adored his Aunt, and that the more she could be around for him, the better. For her too). He paid all of Peter's medical bills before May knew they existed. He introduced himself to a team of mechanics that volunteered at the hospital and got stuck in fixing whatever machine or ambulance vehicle came his way.

He did anything and everything he could think of - except see the kid.

For whatever reason, he couldn't bring himself to see the kid.

Well. He knew the reason. Tony had always worried that he wasn't good for Peter, that he was dangerous, a bad influence. He knew May wasn't his biggest fan. He knew the press put out an ugly spiel whenever Iron Man was seen helping Spider-Man, who, though Peter's identity remained a secret for now, everyone knew couldn't be older than 17.

He knew all that, and normally he could brush it off. Eventually. Tony had never claimed to be perfect, and the sole redeeming quality he would admit was his determination to keep Peter safe at any cost. Now… He could no longer convince himself that he belonged in Peter's life. No matter how much he tried to protect the kid, talk about colleges, upgrade the suit, he just couldn't justify it anymore. In fact – it struck him cold to realise that Peter might not have made the decision he did if Tony hadn't hoarded the suit to calm his own anxiety. He knew how much Peter not only liked but needed to help people out, understood better than anybody the guilt and responsibility on his small shoulders. And he'd kept the suit anyway, because he _couldn't stand the stress_ of worrying about the kid. Here, clear as anything, was the evidence that Tony's very presence was toxic. It was only a matter of time before the black, rotting, thing inside him began to infect the people he loved, and he would die before he let it affect Peter again -

Tony winced.

Poor choice of words.

His point stood.

The second Peter woke up, the second May text him ('awake and stable. No words… thank you for my boy'), Tony ceased to exist in his life. It was safer that way, no matter how much it hurt - and shit, it _hurt_.

But hurt was alright. Pain. Surely, there was no pain he hadn't already faced a thousand times over.

He would face it all again for Peter Parker.

 **Ok, I'm sorry. That was more Angsty Irondad than I intended. Couldn't resist.**


	7. Chapter 7

Peter spent about a week in the hospital, having been transferred the day after he woke up to a psychiatric inpatient unit. It was, in a word intense. He read, endless research on Living With Scars, CBT and MDD and a million other acronyms. He learnt that mental illnesses could impact your immune system and physical health, and silently sent thanks for that fact that his metabolism and healing rates were, for now, normal. Thanks to The D Word, his identity was safe, and he'd had access to medical treatment without a single eyebrow being raised.

He wrote too, page after page of diary entries and missed assignments and random thoughts. It helped. A little.

Most of all, he talked. For hours. He talked to a doctor about his arms (some light physical therapy. Two raised, parallel scars, about 10cm long, on each wrist. For the rest of his life), to another about his brain, to a third about medication (100mg Zoloft daily, and the only thing that had changed so far was some freaky-vivid dreams)... most of all he talked to May, and Ned, who visited every chance they had. May wanted to establish (rules) guidelines; curfew, extracurriculars, weekly counselling sessions, three meals a day plus snacks. Peter knew he had no grounds to complain. Ned always arrived with a clear plastic bag full of Lego bricks, and they'd build a new addition for his Lego Millennium Falcon model each time. Peter didn't complain about that either.

By the time he was cleared to go home, Peter felt... ready. A part of him was terrified, knew that you didn't recover, not really - you just learned to manage. But, for the first time, he thought he could. Manage. Baby steps, as May kept repeating.

But the step into his own room when they got home felt huge. Here was where he'd stashed his blades. Here was where he'd written his note (now somewhere in his medical files). May understood. She wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him to her side for a quick hug and said,

'We'll move if you want to. We'll find a way.'

And he knew they would, and suddenly his bedroom was just a room again, and he had no problem throwing the door open and kicking his shoes off and throwing his jacket onto his bed - where it landed with the sharp rustle of paper.

Peter froze.

As he walked over, he was struck with a strong sense of deja vu, and he knew before he picked up the package what it would be.

His suit.

Peter went to put on the mask, wondering idly if it was possible for Karen to have missed him, when a sheet of paper fell out from between the folds of the suit. Before he could stop himself, he began to read.

 _Welcome home, kid._

 _I hope being back does you good. Friends, family, work... it helps, even if you don't want it to._

 _I'm sorry I didn't see in time. Doesn't change anything, but I am._

 _I'm not a good person, Pete, so I'm going to give you the space to heal. If you ever need me, I'll be there, but for now... Rest. Work. Fight, when you have to; someone's got to keep the neighbourhood friendly, right Spider-Man?_

 _Be good. Be safe. Break some fucking eggs._

 _T.S._

Mr Stark.

It was Tony. Of course, it was Tony. The voicemail Peter had left him... The red-gold-whirring-flying to the hospital… Not some shock-induced hallucination. Not wishful thinking. The doctors, May, the treatments insurance definitely didn't cover... It was all Tony.

'Aunt May,' he called, his hands starting to shake so much he was going to drop the letter if he wasn't careful, 'Aunt May can we talk?'

'Peter, what's wrong?' her hands on his shoulders, pulling him around to face her, barely registered.

'It was Mr Stark, wasn't it?'

May's gaze dropped.

'Wasn't it?' he tried again, his skin buzzing, stomach turning.

'He didn't want you to know.'

'Well... why? He wasn't at the hospital, so I thought - I didn't - May, I've got to see Mr Stark!'

'Peter, stop, please. He obviously doesn't think that's the best thing for you right now, and... I can't say I disagree.'

'But Aunt May – '

'I just don't want you to get hurt.'

Peter sighed.

'Mr Stark would never hurt me.'

'Not intentionally.' May countered, but Peter had already made up his mind.

'Will you drive me? It's not too late, we could make it by six.'

'Okay. Okay, I'll take you, if that's what you want.'

'It is.'

'Okay.'

'Okay?' Peter rushed to put his shoes back on before she could change her mind. His hands were still shaking, so the laces were near impossible, but before long they were on their way. Even as May dropped him off at the compound what felt like decades later, he couldn't shake his nerves.

'I'll be back in an hour.' She promised, and Peter nodded.

He hadn't been to the compound often, but some dim memory or instinct led Peter into the building and through a small maze of passages and rooms to a basement level that functioned as Tony's workshop.

As he walked in, Peter noticed two things. One, Tony had an almost empty glass in his hand. Two, he was deep in conversation with Pepper. It wasn't until Friday's voice announced, 'You have a visitor, boss.' that Tony turned to face him.

Instant silence. Peter tried to smile.

'Hey Mr Stark.'

No reply. Why was no one talking? Someone should be talking right? This, surely, was a situation where you talked!

Peter felt his eyes start to water. What was he expecting? Some dramatic, emotional reunion? This wasn't a movie. Just because Tony had cared enough to help him, didn't mean he _cared_. He had just done what any decent person would. Nothing more to it. How stupid of Peter to think he mattered. His tears fell hot and fast, and suddenly five years old, howling for his parents, while May sobbed and Ben tried desperately to calm him. 14, watching Ben die.

You lost everyone eventually.

'I'm sorry, Mr Stark, this was a bad idea, I'm - '

But before he could leave, Tony, had set down his glass and marched across the room, trapping Peter in a fierce hug.

'I'm sorry, Mr Stark, I'm sorry, I didn't - it's-'

'Pete, do me a favour and shut. Up.' Tony sighed, but his quiet laugh, the quirk of his lip, was all affection, and Peter exhaled sharply. Relief.

'Manners, Tony.' Pepper called, rolling her eyes.

'Please excuse Miss Potts, Mr Parker. She thinks I need a handler.'

'I know you do.' Pepper bit back, but she was smiling, and it was all so familiar, so easy, Peter couldn't help but smile back.

He knew there was a lot to say, that there would be A Discussion of uncomfortably epic proportions, but right now it was enough just to smile.

For all of them.


	8. Chapter 8

'You have a visitor, boss.'

 _Awesome_. Tony was 4 drinks in and nowhere near started; Pepper was already on his case, and the last thing he needed was another pair of eyes to see him like this, another voice expressing their concerns.

Fuck that.

He turned around, intending to tell the visitor exactly where they could go when he was stopped dead in his tracks, mouth frozen in a stupid, gaping 'Oh'.

It was Peter.

Peter, in his ratty hoodie and rattier sneakers, the painfully hipster skinny jeans and graphic tee.

His insides somehow disappeared, leaving him ringing and hollow.

The kid tried to smile.

'Hey Mr Stark.'

But Tony couldn't breathe, let alone speak. This was more than he'd dared to hope for, more than he'd let himself imagine (best case scenario, he figured they might run into each other on a mission, somewhere years down the line, just long enough for him to see the kid was alright) - but that didn't mean this wasn't the worst mistake Peter could ever make. Why didn't Peter understand that Tony wasn't good? That he deserved better?

It would be a whole new kind of despicable if Tony let himself go back on his promise now, when he was finally cutting himself clean of anything pure, good, anything he could taint.

'I'm sorry, Mr Stark, this was a bad idea, I'm -'

Peter was crying.

Peter was crying, and there and then Tony's resolve was gone. Forget being good. Rightly or wrongly, his kid needed him, and he was going to have to step up.

He put down his drink and before he could think twice, he let Peter slump into his chest, felt his arms automatically fold around the small, shaking boy. Maybe it was the alcohol, but there were tears in his own eyes too.

He never could stand a crying kid.

'I'm sorry, Mr Stark, I'm sorry, I didn't - it's-'

'Pete, do me a favour and shut. Up.' Tony huffed, trying to restrain incredulous laughter. The kid was apologising to _him_. For a second Peter's body tensed, but as Tony pulled away and mustered a half-smile, he heard him breathe again, relieved he wasn't in trouble.

Of all the things to think about right now.

Tony doubted he could ever be angry with Peter again.

'Manners, Tony.' Pepper's voice broke the tension.

'Please excuse Miss Potts, Mr Parker. She thinks I need a handler.'

'I know you do.' she said, and the snark was so goddamn wonderful, easy, they couldn't help but grin.

 **Hope you enjoyed the bonus update! I had to drag out the fluff – who knows what Tony and Peter will face next? *rubs hands together villain style, disappearing into a cloud of smoke***


	9. Chapter 9

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence, and no one said anything, until:

'Oh, kid, have I showed you the best part about Karen's upgrades yet?' Tony blurted with a snap of his fingers. Now that the initial tension was gone, Peter could visibly see Tony relax, and he seemed to have forgotten his drink.

'Er, no, I don't think so?'

'You'll love it!' Tony said gleefully, and he made as if to seize Peter's wrist – but the sickly anticipation on Peter's face must have shown and Tony caught himself, instead placing a hand on Peter's shoulder and steering him to the other side of the room. There, suspended on a small podium, sat what looked like a headset.

'Mr Stark, I don't – '

Tony made a quick gesture, tilting his palm to ceiling and lifting his hand before flicking it left, and the small podium transformed. From beneath the headset expanded a workbench at least three metres wide and one across, every inch covered with glowing blueprints, inscriptions, pictures… Peter felt a spark of interest, something so foreign to him lately that it took him by surprise. It had been so long since anything had elicited any response besides apathy in him, and it sent a thrill through him to know that excitement, curiosity, were still within his reach.

'What is it?'

'That, Mr Parker, is for your guy in the chair.'

'Ned?' Peter asked, knowing it was pointless to ask how Tony knew about their arrangement.

'Yeah – I figure your buddy Samwise is always hacking into my tech anyway, I might as well make it easier for you both. This way Karen can keep you in touch without you wasting all that time breaking into her programs first – plus, you each get an auto-synch dashboard display, fully interactive VR capabilities, in case, you know, you get another building collapsed on you that I don't know about and Gamgee has to help you out -' and Tony was off, spewing tech jargon a million miles an hour, Peter hanging on every word.

Seeing they were both engrossed, Pepper left to finish her days work, and Peter spent the next half an hour listening to Tony explain everything he'd been working on since he first commandeered Peter's suit (the night of the pileup… had that really been a month ago?). It was beyond words, and Peter couldn't wait until his next patrol.

'Thank you, Mr Stark, it's incredible. Really.'

'Oh, I know – but that's nothing, kid, I also… I made you something else, too.' Tony pushed his hand down, and a draw fell open beneath the workbench. Inside were two metal bands, silver in colour, about 15 cm in length, sized to fit…

Wrists - small wrists. Like that of a teenage boy.

There was no air.

'Can I?' Tony asked quietly, motioning to Peter's sleeves. Peter nodded mutely, and Tony carefully pushed the sleeve on his right arm up. Neither of them mentioned the two neat cuts or the row of stark (no pun intended) black stiches holding them closed. Tony just opened one of the cuffs and secured it on Peter's arm, making sure it fit perfectly before brushing a finger across the top of it.

It was, for all intents and purposes, magic.

The metal cuff, which covered Peter's arm from wrist almost to the crook of his elbow, grew warm for a split second, and then the dull silver colour was gone. Peter thought at first the cuff had vanished, but as he turned his arm over, he realised it was simply mimicking his skin tone. There was no sign of the scars on his wrist, no evidence that anything had even been hidden.

'Just in case.' Tony said, when it was clear Peter was too choked to respond. 'I'm not saying you've got anything to hide. Believe me, Pete, you've got nothing to be ashamed of, now, or ever. I just… I know what it's like. To hit rock bottom and find out it's quicksand and wonder if you'll ever stop sinking. And then when you make your peace with it, sinking, to be dragged back up and have all the shit you brought with you on full display. I get it, I do. It sucks. I know this doesn't make it suck less,' here he gestured to the headset, the cuffs, 'but I wanted you to know you're not alone. You've got some good people in your corner – and me – and there's no pressure from anyone to bounce back _right now_. Everything in your own time, in your own way, alright? And if… If you ever want to talk…' there was a pause. Tony seemed lost in thought for just a second before he was back, focused on Peter. He pulled a screen up between them, and quickly tapped the holographic surface until they were watching… newsreels? A stream of headlines? It was a minute before it all clicked.

 _Boy Genius Tony Stark Hospitalised After Overdose._

 _Childish Game or Cry For Help? Tony Stark's Suicide Bids._

' _My Son Made No Attempt on His Life.' – Hopeless Howard In Denial?_

 _MIT Faculties Concerned 'Tony Is Too Young.' Following Self Harm Rumours._

 _Big Scare in The Big Apple: Is The Suit Too Much For Tony Stark?_

Year after year after year of _pain_. Peter didn't need the sudden rush of adrenaline and ringing in his head to tell him it was all true. Tony's resolutely blank face said enough.

'Mr Stark – '

'- I'll get it then, too. And I won't ever judge.' Tony finished, erasing everything with a close of his hand.

Peter nodded, speechless. It wasn't that he was surprised; the whole world knew about Tony Stark's rocky history, and Peter had long ago sensed that they had… certain things in common – it was just different. Seeing it in person. Concrete proof that he wasn't alone.

He was, selfishly, glad.

And he really should be saying something now.

'Got it kid?'

'Yes. Sure. Talking. Got it.'

'Good. And if I'm not the right guy, you know the same goes for shrinks and Aunt Hottie and Zuckerberg too –'

'I know Mr Stark, don't worry – from now on, I promise I'll try, and, er, talk… more.'

'Swear on the suit? No bullshit?'

'No bullshit.' Peter grinned.

'Good. Your language, by the way? Appalling. God knows where you pick it up. I should kick you out.'

Tony smirked as Peter shook his head. Almost as if on cue, Peter's phone rang. It was May, waiting to take him home. It was with more than a little reluctance that Peter explained he had to leave.

'Thank you, Mr Stark, for everything.' he managed as Tony walked him out, his arms full with his new gadgets.

'Anything. Always. You know that. And, uh… swing by anytime, Spiderling.'

'I will,' Peter smiled as he walked towards the car. Hesitating just a second with his hand on the car door, Peter turned and called back, 'and Mr Stark? I don't judge either. If you want to talk.'

'Duly noted, kid.' But Peter, already in the car, only faintly heard the reply as May drove off. Later, Peter would remember that moment: the two of them both tossing a wave in Tony's direction, and the peace sign that was thrown up in response. He would remember Tony watching their car, and he would kick himself for leaving. For breaking up the last moment of normality they would get to share before it all went so very, horribly _wrong_.

Again.

 **Hey guys, hope you enjoyed that chapter! I want to apologise first for cutting the fluff short (I know, I know, I'm evil) and secondly for the wait between updates. As you've probably guessed from this and some of my other stories, I write a lot from personal experience, and I'm not in a good place right now. I'm finding it hard to force myself to write, but I wanted to say I am trying and thank you for bearing with me:)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Wishing a very happy birthday to Sunnymorn - your reviews always put a smile on my face, and I love your writing! I hope your day is as brilliant as you:) To celebrate, here's an extra-long update, and a promise that I will try to post another one later today. Enjoy!**

Tony didn't actually _see_ Peter again for a while. True, they spoke on the phone every other day. And, yes, the kid was talking more – at least, he kept up a steady stream of texts that was guaranteed to put a sappy smile on Tony's face, if it didn't give him a heart attack first:

 _Underoos, 10:38: Mid-terms this week – nailed algebra. Again!_

 _Underoos, 13:42: Mr Saunderson thinks you did my physics assignment for me, but my Bio-Chem teachers say the Stark internship is the best thing to ever happen to my grades. It's kinda funny really. Sometimes I want to tell them._

 _Underoos, 14:33: School counsellor seems nice. Promised May I'd go once, but I think I'll go back._

 _Underoos, 19:21: Ned says hi._

 _Underoos, 19:21: *Ned says hi!:) (Sorry. I told him emojis were dorky)._

 _Underoos, 19:22: So does May._

 _Underoos, 00:16: I've got a question: who would you be in that old movie, The Breakfast Club?_ _MJ says I'm a textbook Brian. She said that third period, and I'm still not sure what she means._

 _Underoos, 00:18: English Lit homework is not lit. I crave death._

 _Underoos, 00:18: Sorry. Bad joke._

 _Underoos, 03:56: I miss it. Sleeping. At night. Too tired to close my eyes. Easier to stay up working. Is that a thing? I think it's a thing. Figured you'd know._

 _Me, 04:02: Sure, for a lucky few. Forget the homework. Get some shuteye before May knocks you out._

 _Underoos, 04:04: She wouldn't do that._

 _Me, 04:05: Maybe not. I would._

 _Underoos, 04:06: Right. Night Mr Stark._

 _Me, 04:06: Night Pete._

It was cheesy, disgustingly domestic stuff, really – but Tony was grateful for every word. He lived for the fierce pride he had in his kid, who was proving again and again how strong he was, how unendingly brave and clever.

For his part, Tony kept in touch through regular updates from May and a steady stream of gifts to the Parker residence (ok, so maybe they didn't necessarily _need_ a new flat-screen, or updated kitchen counter-tops; and maybe Peter insisted he wasn't about to start listening to ACDC anytime soon – 'besides, Mr Stark, I don't know how long it'll be before I find something that still plays CD's.' - but it made Tony feel better). And that was it. Easy. Normal. Their comfy routine was disrupted completely by accident about three weeks after Peter's visit when they literally ran into each other in the middle of the night.

Tony, as usual unable to sleep, was out playing crash-test-dummy in the latest War Machine suit (Rhodey was too proud to say it, but Tony knew that after his injuries in the fight with Steve, there was a long way to go before he would be able to fly comfortably again, and he devoted as much time as he could to helping his friend). He'd even gone as far as to put himself under local anaesthetic to numb his legs – accurate test results, the key to every job - and that was probably why it happened.

As he was approaching the Bronx-Whitestone bridge, Tony felt his stomach drop, turning queasily, and wondered if he'd caught a bug before he realised that he actually _was_ dropping. Fast. Stuffy, panicky red warning lights pulsed across the dashboard, helpfully informing him of a fun little cocktail of system failures. With his legs out of action and all thrusters unresponsive, there was no way he would be able to control his fall, and Tony tried not to let his mind spin out as the bridge and everyone on it grew closer and closer by the second –

Until it stopped. His head snapped back and everything began to rush away from him so fast he genuinely thought he'd been poisoned, because bridges didn't move like that…

It was an embarrassingly long time before Tony thought to turn his head and saw the web that was catapulting him by his shoulders away from the bridge and towards one hell of a splash.

'What the hell kid?!' Tony yelled as his useless legs hit the water, and he took a breath, preparing any moment for the cold that would seize him when he went under – but it never came. There was the pattering of his feet skimming the surface, and he was unceremoniously yanked back up, flying in a wide arc.

'Sorry Mr Stark!' Peter called, and Tony struggled for a second before he spotted him. Peter, in his signature red-and-blue suit was hanging upside-down from the bridge, one arm outstretched to swing Tony up, the other hand clinging to a web that, from what Tony could see, was forming a barrier just barely holding back… a bus? Of course there was a goddamn _bus_. A bus that at this moment in time was threatening to spill off the bridge, taking Peter, Tony, the driver, and who knew how many others with it.

'Pete, you trust me right?'

'Not the time, Mr Stark!'

'I didn't mean – never mind. On my signal, let me go, alright?'

'What?! No way –'

'Now!'

To his credit, Peter didn't hesitate; he released Tony just a fraction earlier than he would've done, sending Tony sprawling across the bridge – or almost. Instead, as he'd planned, Tony managed to clamp his hands on the side of the bus. Between the weight of the suit and his momentum, he managed to steer the bus back onto the bridge, his limp legs flying out underneath him to knock a passing vehicle out of harm's way. He saw the tension leave Peter's web as it bounced slack, no longer supporting the bus's weight, and was about to allow himself a moment of smugness when he realised he _wasn't stopping_.

'Parker?' Tony shot between groans as he rattled across the bridge and tore through the opposite railing. The unresponsive suit screeched in protest, clanging uselessly off the tarmac before he was falling again, tumbling off the bridge in a glorified tin-can and God, no, no, please not now - _shitshitshit_ , there was no way to stop it, there never was, this was what Rhodey had seen in Berlin, this was Rhodey flying dead-stick, counting on Tony but Tony failed, he always failed, and this was New York, New York and Loki, aliens, space, a nuke in his hands and _exploding fucking spaceships_ the last thing he would ever see because (how quickly he volunteered to die) his eyes were rolling back in his skull, his lungs had burst he couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe just falling, falling and this was it, Pepper wasn't here, no-one was here, and this was how it was going to end, he was always going to die alone, live alone, and who cared which was worse, his skin was burning –

'I've got you Mr Stark – it's alright, it's alright, I've got you! It's me Mr Stark, open up, look at me, look at me, look - just stop it - Mr Stark, please, _look at me!_ '

There was a rush of wind like a slap to the face and Tony's eyes wrenched open. For a terrifying second, he still couldn't see a thing, and he had to force himself not to scream - but by the time his breathing lost its desperate edge and his heart slowed a little, he could make out Peter's face, the damp brown curls and furrowed brow, the small hand holding the face plate of the suit Tony was wearing.

'Pete.'

'Yeah, it's me, Mr Stark, just me.'

'What happened?'

'Well, I – I was on patrol and I was tailing these guys over the bridge when there was a crash and I had to catch a bus and then I had to catch _you_ and you stopped the bus from falling but you went over and I had to catch you _again_ , and you were yelling, you were yelling so _loud_ , I thought you were hurt – are you hurt? I'm so sorry Mr Stark –'

'Slow down, kid.' Tony begged, grunting as he sat up. 'I'm peachy, it's –'

'Careful.' Peter said sharply, his arms thrown out as if to steady Tony.

Tony almost retched when he realised why. The kid had obviously decided that the safest place for them to stop was on top of the North tower of the bridge – fine if you were a crime-fighting super-human-spider-hybrid-kid or if you had a working suit, but if you were just a man with a dead shell of a suit and mild-to-debilitating anxiety issues on a good day? Not so much.

'Okay. Okay, okay, okay, from the top. Who were you tailing?' Tony asked, choosing to look not down, but at Peter. It was safer. He couldn't freak out if Peter was watching.

'That's just the thing, Mr Stark, I don't know – a couple of weeks before I, um - well, the night you took my suit to the shop, there was another pileup, on another bridge, these three guys were after this driver, and I stopped them then, but it's been happening all over the city.'

'What do you mean?'

'Almost every night since, especially when I was… off duty for a bit, it's been the same thing over and over again. Someone, a driver, will be followed, chased towards a bridge – there'll be a huge pileup that stops anyone getting close enough to actually _see_ anything, and then there's nothing. Just someone else missing. Nothing stolen, no demands for ransom –'

'No motive.' Tony finished, the problem quickly focusing his mind.

'Exactly. I've been doing the rounds, watching the bridges in and out of every borough, but… It's like they know where I'm going to be. Like I'm always a minute too late.'

'Not your fault Pete,' Tony said automatically, hating but understanding the defeated slump of Peter's shoulders; he found his eyes torn to the dirty night sky, as they always were when he stopped to think of the million things they could be unprepared to face. 'we could be dealing with something big here. These guys obviously do their homework, they know you're a threat –'

'Yeah, but we don't know –'

But just what they didn't know was never established. There was a faint whistle, a dull thud, and a hiss as Peter gasped in surprise – Tony turned his head just in time to see an arrow lodged in Peter's chest. His hands fluttered up, as if to pull it out, and then he was falling, someone was literally reeling him in like a fish on a hook -

'NO!' Tony screamed, only vaguely aware that the guttural snarl came from him as he lunged to catch Peter – but he was too slow. Peter fell, slipping neatly through the hatch in the roof of a waiting van, and just like that he was gone. The van sped away, and Tony watched, powerless, as Peter was stolen. Gone. Peter was gone, and Tony was 115m in the air in a broken suit like the Tin-Man reject

( _goodbye, tin man, oh don't cry, you'll rust so dreadfully, here, here's your oil can, goodbye… now I know I've got a heart, because it's breaking_ )

nobody needed. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. All he could do was let the sheer, breath-taking terror crush him

again.

And again.

And again.

He was almost glad when a heavy, hulking, something hit him from behind, knocking him forwards, leaving him suspended for just a second before he was plucked from the air and flown higher still, carried -

In the opposite direction to Peter.

Tony registered one thought before his head was struck and he blacked out:

 _We're going the wrong way._


	11. Chapter 11

Between the crash on the bridge and Tony's anxiety attack, Peter was hardly surprised that he'd been, well, surprised. The static at the base of his skull, the cold that lapped at his skin… none of it had registered, and if it had? Excuse him for being a little preoccupied with the falling bus and insensible billionaire. At the time, he'd just been glad to find that the sluggish, skulking fog he was, in all honesty, still working on lifting from his mind didn't stop him doing his job.

Now? He was more than paying for the brief respite.

One minute he'd been talking to Tony, describing as best he could the patterns he'd noticed over the last few weeks, and the next there was a crushing sensation like someone was sat on his chest and he'd pitched forwards into the most cliché villain-style van he could imagine. Really, the lack of creativity was almost insulting – though not as embarrassing as the fact he'd landed hard on his head and knocked himself unconscious for who knew how long now.

Not that he would ever admit to any of that. By the time he came to, there was decidedly nothing funny about the situation. Peter's bravado, not quite failing, was definitely struggling. There was a sickly, queasy terror that smothered any snarky quips he might usually make, and between the throbbing of his chest and the jarring, rocking of the van, it was all he could do to keep himself from throwing up.

It didn't help that he couldn't see.

'Christ, kid, hold still.' Barked a rough voice, and Peter found himself forced upright, pinned in a sitting position in a corner of the van. His hands and feet itched to lash out, despite the fact he'd been thoroughly tied up. Without warning, the pain in his chest flared, and the arrow was pulled out with a nauseating tug. Biting back a scream, Peter buried his face in his shoulder, doing the best he could to work off whatever was blocking his vision – a decision he soon regretted.

'I wouldn't.' came the warning, and his head was yanked back by his hair. 'Nothing you need to see. Yet.'

'Where are you taking me?' Peter asked, knowing he wasn't about to get a straight answer.

'That's up to us, isn't it?' _Us._ More than one, then – but how many? Peter's thoughts raced as he began to take stock of everything he knew:

He wasn't alone; there were at least two people in the van with him, maybe more.

Tony wasn't here. If he had been, Peter would not still be in the van, let alone tied up and bleeding heavily.

Tony _would_ turn up, as soon as he could. Always did.

They'd taken his mask, so his cover may be blown – though just how bad that was he didn't know.

He'd been blinded, but not gagged, so they weren't worried anyone would hear him if he (screamed) called for help – but there was a chance he might recognise… them? The van? Wherever they were taking him? Something, he was sure.

The van _reeked_. Bad.

He was done keeping quiet.

'I guess – that's how it usually works right? You've got the wheel. No back-seat driving here! Though, if I recall correctly, shotgun reserves the right to DJ and this place is in dire need of something… We could go classic – Kiss, Nirvana, Beatles – or modern, cause I gotta say you strike me as Swifties –' Peter knew he was rambling, but he didn't care. Silence unnerved him.

'Shut. The Fuck. Up.' was the only acknowledgement that Peter had spoken, the words practically snarled.

'Sure, chief – though I should let you know, I don't think my friend will like you. That language? Appalling, he'd say. Might wanna clean it up before he gets here.'

There was silence for a moment, and Peter guessed his captors were deciding whether or not to call his bluff.

'His friend?' judging by the muffled tone, Peter had been left alone for the time being, the others huddled together for some kind of meeting at the front of the van. He felt vaguely offended he'd been left out; cove-ops were a drag. Still, eavesdropping was easy enough in the enclosed space.

'The guy in the suit.' Explained a second voice.

'War Machine armour, right? It's gotta be Rhodes.' Said a third, this voice notably softer. Female?

'That's not what the guys are saying,' continued the second. His voice, too, was lowered, so Peter could just hear the static hum of comms units – phones? Walkie-Talkies? It didn't matter, really. It just meant there were more of them somewhere else. Peter wondered how he could draw them all to him, take their attention off the streets and civilians. 'they think…'

'What?' the first, noticeably irate.

'They think they've got Tony Stark.'

 _Shit._

'If they have Stark –' Peter could hear the panic in the woman's voice. Whatever their deal was, involving Tony was not part of it; Iron Man was way beyond their pay grade. He wanted to laugh – until he remembered Tony wasn't Iron Man right now. He was War Machine, and though Peter wasn't stupid enough to believe that that would stop Tony from fighting, he was all too aware that the War Machine armour would be difficult. For starters, it was custom-made… for someone else; likely bound from the start by military regulations even Tony couldn't ignore completely. He'd be limited, and that was best-case.

It was something, but would it be enough?

'This could work in our favour.' Tried the second voice.

'It was just the kid. We only needed to get rid of the kid.' Hissed the first. 'Can we handle Stark?'

'Yes, we need the kid off our case – as far as we know, he's the only one bothered about chasing us - but it wouldn't hurt to take care of the babysitter too, would it?' reasoned the second, and something in his calm, logical tone, scared Peter more than any threat or injury.

'Alright, fine. Jesus. Get the others to meet us at the compound and we'll handle it.'

Murmurs of assent. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of shuffling as the group disbanded. Despite himself, Peter squirmed a little, relishing the resulting pain in his chest. The sharp ache, the warm, slick blood… it kept him alert. Awake.

Or it did, until there was the cloying, sweet smell of ether and a wet cloth was forced over his face.

 _Not now_ , Peter thought wildly as he was towed into crushing, dreamless sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Tony woke up slowly, clumsily, stumbling through thick, lingering nightmares that clung viciously. The terror would only be broken by more terror, punctuated every now and then by urgent whispers, the scrape of chains, or an icy draft. It might have been hours before he truly came to; he had no way of knowing.

The first thing he registered was the strain in his shoulders. His arms had been shackled above his head, and when he tried to shift his weight he found his feet, too, had been fastened. Rhodey's suit was gone, and he'd been left in just his jeans. None of that was good; the useless suit was the closest thing he had to a weapon, to protection, and he could think of no pleasant reason his skin would be left exposed.

Thirdly, and most importantly, he wasn't alone. Though his eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, he could see he was in a small room, maybe 10 feet across at its widest point, chained directly opposite another bound figure.

It didn't take a genius to make the horrifying connection.

'Pete?' he called, his hoarse voice too quiet at first. 'C'mon kid, you with me?'

'Mr Stark?'

'Yeah, Pete, it's me.'

'I'm so sorry –'

'Stop right there. I don't have time to lecture you about apologies right now, okay?'

'Okay.'

'Alright. What do we know? Are you hurt? Know where we are?'

'I'm fine, Mr Stark, really. They patched me up. I think… I think we're going to be here a while.' Peter tried to laugh, but the nervous, frightened edge to the noise was slightly manic, and Tony paled. He hated to admit it, but he thought Peter was right. Someone obviously had unfinished business with them.

'Not if I can help it, alright? Remember that. Who's they?'

'Not sure. Traffickers I think. No-one I know, but apparently I've been getting in their way.' Another grating, panicked laugh.

'Traffickers?'

'Yeah. Human. They, uh… they take people and sell them on.'

'Sure. Okay. Just your everyday, classy assholes then.'

'Grade-A, Mr Stark.'

'That's fine, we can deal with that. Hear me, Pete? We can deal with this.'

'Uh-huh.' But the fear in Peter's voice was nowhere near gone; if anything, it was getting worse, and there was a gut-wrenching, frantic rattling as Peter struggled against his bonds.

'Okay, that's enough, Marley - I need you to stay calm. I'm gonna get you out, but you can't pull a… a me on me, okay? Stay with me.'

'Someone's coming, Mr Stark, they're coming they'recoming theyrecomingtheyrecomingtheyrecoming –'

'Yeah, got that kid, less Carol Anne, more Silence alright? Can we do that?' Tony snapped, straining to hear if anyone was approaching them. Peter actually laughed at that, albeit shakily.

'Sure – but the Silence talk, Mr Stark.' They both knew full well Tony had never watched Doctor Who; they both pretended that that was what mattered right now.

'Just trying to speak your language, Pete –' but whatever else he might've said was cut off as they were both blinded by a sharp rush of light. There was the sound of a door clicking shut, and a switch being pushed, at which point the room was flooded by a dull light that still took a minute to adjust to. Vaguely aware that he was blinking stupidly, Tony tried to focus on Peter.

It was bad. Already. Though the arrow wound in Peter's chest had been plugged and bandaged, there was a storm of bruises along his left side that even covered parts of his face. Peter, too, had been stripped to a pair of sweatpants, so Tony could pinpoint exactly which rib was most likely to be broken, and saw the full horror of the contrast between Peter's pale skin and his injuries. They'd obviously taken the kids suit too, but what got Tony pissed was Peter's wrists. The cuffs that Tony had made him should have been undetectable, should've offered some protection from the chains that bound him – but they'd been taken too. Now he could see, Tony could count exactly how many stitches had been ripped as the kid struggled, and he swore there and then that someone would pay for that.

'And sleeping beauty awakes.' Quipped a dry voice, and for the first time Tony turned to glare at the man who'd just arrived.

'Uh-huh, and who does that make you, my ugly stepsister?' he bit, determined to keep their captors attention on him. For all his swagger, the man didn't look like much; he was barely taller than Tony, and his tousled dark hair and ragged clothes seemed more of a front. This was someone who reeked of money, playing bad cop for kicks.

'Wrong fairy-tale, Anthony.' And whether it was the use of his full name or his imagination, Tony felt a childish stab of shame, like he'd genuinely disappointed the guy.

'Sorry, princess stories were never my thing – though I've been told I suit a tiara.'

'I'm sure you do.' The silky, indulgent tone of the man's voice made Tony's _everything_ crawl, but he wasn't about to show any discomfort.

'What do you want with u- me?' _keep Peter out of it._

'To teach your boy a lesson. He's been getting in my way, and to be frank I've no time for pests. I never liked spiders.'

'Good to know. Let him go, he'll be out of your hair; just me and you honey, we can talk this out. No need to involve the kids.'

'Nice try Stark,' smiled the man, walking slowly towards Peter, watching Tony for a reaction. Tony just managed to choke back his fear. If he played this right, he still might be able to save his kid. 'but I think you need teaching, too. Children need discipline, you know?'

'Uh-huh. Kid, you're grounded. That about do it?' there was a hysterical note to Tony's voice that almost killed the sarcasm, but he would talk until he couldn't speak if it brought Peter some time.

'I'm afraid not. I prefer more permanent reminders, don't you?' he had taken a knife out of his pocket. Tony was going to choke him for that. 'Besides,' their captor continued, seizing Peter's arm and tracing a row of stitches with the tip of the blade, 'I don't think he'll mind. It's what you want, isn't it… Mr Parker? So unhappy.'

Tony's organs vanished, leaving him hollow and ringing. Peter stared at him. His brown eyes, wide with mute terror, were begging Tony to do something.

'I'm so sorry Pete.' Tony said limply, with one curt shake of his head. The man was toying with Peter, sliding the blade between stitches –

'Where to begin?' He simpered, like this was Christmas and he couldn't decide which present to open first.

Yeah. Tony was going to throttle him.

'Don't touch him!' Tony snarled, unable to contain his fear and rage any longer. The frustration of being so close to, but unable to do anything for, Peter was too much. He knew instantly that he shouldn't have said a word, that he'd walked right into a trap.

'I wasn't sure at first…' the man said quietly, his voice hushed with a sick kind of awe. 'But it's true. You care about the boy, don't you Stark?'

'Uh-huh, gold star for you. My kryptonite – sell it if you like, press would be all over you. You'd be rich. We done here?' he was rambling, grasping at straws – this was beyond hellish. So much for protecting Peter. Tony had failed. Again. How long had it taken their captors to figure out that the quickest way to get to one was to get to the other? Hours? Minutes? He still didn't know how long they'd been here.

'So forward, Anthony. Patience.' He smiled. Tony blanched. 'We're just getting started.'

 **Full disclosure, I'm not 100% sure where I'm going with this story anymore; it's starting to feel a little off and I think I'm going to try and bring it to a close in the next few chapters. Idk, I hope you guys are still enjoying it, don't forget to let me know what you think and if there's anything you might want to see me write when I do finish this story:)**


	13. Chapter 13

It was beyond anything Peter had ever faced.

Worse than splitting his lip when he was learning to ride a bike, spitting grit for a week.

Worse than screaming himself hoarse for his Mom, his Dad, for Ben, May tearing at her hair, begging him to stop, to wake up from whatever nightmare he was in.

Worse than the spider bite, 48 hours of mindless agony, trying to pretend his body wasn't burning.

Worse than Berlin, where there didn't seem to be an inch of him that wasn't bruised or broken.

Worse than being crushed beneath a building, listening as his bones cracked with damn near musical splinters.

Worse, even, than dying, when the high of his choice, the relief, had numbed the pain of his open wrists and shame made him oblivious to recovery.

This was worse than everything, and it just. Wasn't. Stopping.

Their captor, Jorah ('we're big on manners here, Peter, so let's introduce ourselves and _smile,_ shall we _?_ '), had started relatively small. When he'd grown bored of simply taunting Tony, he'd turned his attention to Peter, and slowly, slowly (everything was so fucking _slow_ ) torn each stitch left in Peter's wrists, using the blade of the knife to play with the exposed wounds. That was fine. Bearable. Nothing more than Peter had done himself, and he wasn't going to die (Jorah insisted) - just have more notable scars. So what?

Bearable.

Then came the 'fun' stuff. Jorah using every tool at his disposal to cut, to carve, to slice, to burn... to break.

The sick part was, he wasn't breaking Peter – no more than his bones at least.

He was breaking Tony.

Peter had quickly seen the real aim of Jorah's game, and from the second the blade touched his skin he resolved he wouldn't break. Not with Tony watching. He knew better than anyone the guilt Tony would feel, and he was determined not to add to it by yelling.

 _And if you died, I feel like that's on me. I don't need that on my conscience._

Peter didn't need that either - so he wasn't going to make a sound. He wasn't going to acknowledge the tortured look on Tony's face, his pleas, his threats, his sobs, his apologies, and he wasn't going to make a sound himself. Simple as that.

In theory. That lasted maybe half an hour, at which point Jorah had snapped Peter's left femur and crushed his right ankle with two shattering blows (a crowbar? Breeze blocks? Peter honestly couldn't say, having hit a strange, floaty state of mind in which nothing was real and he couldn't concentrate. At all).

Bearable.

 _Then_ he lowered the chains on Peter's arms, forcing all of his weight on his broken legs. At this point, Peter had pitched forwards and made an indescribable sound somewhere between a howl and sob.

That was that.

He hadn't stopped screaming since. Once he'd started, it was impossible to take it back, to regain any composure or zone out again. Nothing cut through the pain. Nothing mattered except screaming til his throat bled because _holyshit_ this was unendurable, this was the end, it didn't matter how pissed he was that he was still around, didn't matter that he wasn't supposed to be here, this could only be his punishment for failing, for living -

'Oh, Anthony, look! Poor little thing. Is he always so loud? Annoying. Still, good to know he's got a voice, hm?' A grin in the words, somewhere, Peter was sure – or maybe not, given that his brain seemed to have combusted.

There was quiet for just a beat as Peter's breath hitched and they waited for a response. Peter prayed Tony would stay silent; the last thing he needed was a pissed off Jorah, or worse, one who would get bored of Peter and go back to kidnapping civilians, maybe even start on Tony.

'Get. The fuck. Off my kid, or I. Will. _Butcher you_.' Peter had never heard such rage in Tony's voice. He forced himself to focus, to hold his head above the violent tides and look at Tony – and froze.

Tony was… livid. Glowering. Seething. His cheeks were stained with tears, and there was blood pooling round his hands and feet where he'd been struggling against his bonds. His hair, his eyes, everything about him was wild, and on any other occasion Peter might have laughed to see him so unhinged, made an easy joke involving Tony, tempers, and the Hulk - but not now.

Now, Tony looked dangerous.

Peter's chest seemed to swell. _My kid_. It was almost worth the pain, knowing there was someone who cared, to whom he mattered, even if the resulting guilt made him feel, if possible, more nauseas.

'Don't, Mr Stark, don't… it's okay, I'm okay –' he tried, but between the wheezing, the coughs, the steady rush of blood… he wasn't even convincing himself, and Tony had always seen through Peter's bullshit.

'Don't. Please, kid… I'll get you out of here, I swear –'

Then again, Peter could see through Tony's too, though if possible he adored Tony even more for not giving up on him when he'd long ago given up on himself. Peter let the pride, the affection wash over him – a light, lovely, thing, that in all honesty probably had just as much to do with the extensive blood loss as it did Tony fighting for him.

'And how, Stark, will you do that?' Jorah interrupted, clearly bored now Peter had stopped yelling. 'What can you possibly do without your toys?'

'Nothing. You know that. Nothing, except… trade. Me for him. You let him go, and I won't fight. Parker forgets you –'

'No, Mr Stark, stop!' there was no authority in Peter's quavering voice.

'Parker forgets you,' Tony insisted, loudly, 'and me, and you carry on. Business as usual – in fact better, if you want to use me. I'll do anything. As long as the kid walks out of here now.' Tony was shaking, but his eyes were fixed on Jorah, steady as their captor considered.

'Funny, Anthony, that you think you're in a position to bargain – but I admire courage, so here's what we'll do: Parker stays. You stay. I leave, and my associates arrive to tape the little insect back together. When I return… fair's fair Stark. You've brought your boy a break, but we've got so much more to learn! Your turn.'

'No – no – no deal! We object! Objection!' Peter tried to protest, cringing at the desperate, wild tone of his voice, but Jorah was already gone, leaving Peter and Tony in semi-darkness once more.

'Pete it's alright.'

'No, Mr Stark, that's not fair, I – I don't care, I don't care, I heal fast and if I don't – I don't care, he's right, I don't, it has to be me –'

'I don't wanna hear it kid. We don't have time for this, so save it. Pipe your melodramatic, Gen-Z ass down, put the self-sacrifice on the back burner and _roll with it_.'

'But –' the unfairness, the hypocrisy of it all sent a petulant wave of anger through Peter.

' _No_. Bottom line? You're done. You did good, and I am so, so proud of you Pete, but you're done. _I'm_ done. I'm not going to stand here and watch – watch you – I'm not, alright? You're done.'

And Peter didn't get a chance to protest, because at that moment the door opened again, revealing two new men; he'd barely caught a glimpse of their faces before he felt the sharp pinch of a needle and he slipped under.

Again.

Tony was right about one thing, Peter conceded groggily; he was so _done_ being knocked out.

 **Hey, sorry this chapter was a bit random and all over the place, hopefully everything will be clearer in the next update – I figured people in pain, even superheroes, aren't always the most reliable narrators. Also, thank you so much for all your feedback on the last chapter, it means a lot to know you guys are still enjoying this story. I will be wrapping it up over the next few updates, and I think I know how I'm going to do it, but I'd be interested to know… what do you guys see happening for our fave duo? Happily ever after, or a whole lot of hurt? As always, open to suggestions for this story and future ones:)**


	14. Chapter 14

Tony wasn't sure how Peter was still standing. For an hour or two that felt like a lifetime, Tony had watched the boy he loved as a son beaten, bruised, broken, torn… He was sure each blow, each ragged breath, each injury, would mean the end.

But it didn't stop.

So Tony screamed while Peter refused to, yelling, begging, pleading, bargaining, threatening – and even when Peter did scream, Tony didn't let himself stop. He was determined to get Jorah's attention completely on him, to buy Peter a respite if nothing else while he worked on a plan of escape.

It had worked, eventually. Jorah had stopped, Tony had had a minute or two to talk to Peter, to try and reassure him (though fuck knows they were both beyond words at this point; the sheer terror leeched any calm from their voices), and then Peter was put under while he was patched up. True to their word, their captors cleaned, stitched, and bandaged the limp teen – though Tony could've snapped their necks as he watched them none too gently pull Peter's battered body this way and that – and everything was quiet.

But not for long.

Peter's metabolism burned through the drugs quickly, and all too soon the silence was broken by his stifled, panicked sobs.

'It's alright kiddo, I'm here, I'm here. Pete. Hey, pal, you with me?'

'Mr Stark? Yeah. Here. Are you hurt?'

'I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that, okay?'

'But they said –'

'Don't think about it. It's not for you to worry about, now or ever. Just try and rest.' The words were flat, even in Tony's ears. _Get some rest. Being chained up is actually super-ergonomic, kid, trust me._ He wasn't even sure what he was trying to say, except that he didn't want Peter to freak out, and it would be really helpful if the kid could pass out and miss… Tony's turn, whenever that was.

Tony tried to believe their captors would allow that.

But of course they didn't.

Within minutes of Peter coming to, Jorah was back, wearing a placid smile that told Tony nothing about their arrangement had been forgotten. Refusing to pander to their captor, Tony looked not at him, not at the array of… instruments he'd brought with him, but at Peter. The kid, if possible, was even paler, shuddering violently. Tony managed a small smile, and blinked once, slowly, deliberately. _Close your eyes, Pete._ It took a moment, but Peter nodded, and his eyes closed. The relief was tangible; as long as he knew Peter would be oblivious, Tony could stomach anything Jorah could throw at him.

In theory.

It lasted five minutes. Five minutes of snapped digits, burns, and cuts – a warm up, Tony was sure – before Jorah got pissed, really pissed, at the lack of reaction from Tony or Peter. Tony had learnt the hard way a bored psychopath was a dangerous one, and he was painfully aware he wouldn't be the one punished if he didn't put on a show.

It would be Peter.

But he wasn't about to put Peter through any more than he'd already been through, so as much as he wanted to Tony knew he couldn't scream or give any indication he was actually in pain…

What he _could_ do was be a complete and utter irritating _prick_.

'So, Jorah?' he started, wincing as a blade was dragged across his lower ribcage. 'Where do I know the name?'

'You don't know me Stark, but don't worry; I'll make sure you don't forget.' Of course. Ugh. One thing no one ever mentioned about this 'superhero' gig was how predictable the bad guys were. Tony almost rolled his eyes in spite of himself, before remembering he had more important things to worry about.

He glanced up to see that, although he was now frowning in confusion, Peter was keeping his word and hadn't opened his eyes yet.

'I'm sure… Jonah. But, no, I do… Wait a sec, you're the one on TV right? Yeah, with the dragons, and ice zombies – you're in love with that _stunning_ blonde, whatshername, Elsa! Though, buddy, I gotta say, I think you're righting cheques your 5'8" ass can't cash, she's got _dragons_ , you know?'

'You watch too much TV, Anthony - and how your perverted mind is confusing a children's movie with Game of Thrones is, quite frankly, beyond me –' Anyone would think they were old friends.

'See, now, you can't tell me I watch too much TV if you're gonna understand my references, because I'll get confused.'

'An unusual concept for you, I'm sure, Stark.' Jorah quipped drily, and Tony bit back a grin as a vice was clamped around his shin. Verbal sparring, every psycho's weakness. This was where predictability worked in his favour. Tony may be buying himself a whole lot more pain, but every second Jorah wasn't acknowledging Peter was worth it.

Tony was winning.

He was winning, so it didn't matter how much he bled, how many bones were broken; all that mattered was that Peter was alive. His kid was, for now, as safe as he could be, and that meant Tony was _winning_.

'Not as unusual as a grown man admitting to watching Disney movies.' Tony smirked.

And the vice was tightened.

A lot.

But that was alright. Better him than Peter. Tony relished each injury, each throb or stab of pain, the agony rising and falling around him as he continued to goad Jorah (when he wasn't stifling screams, of course). Every second brought his kid relative safety, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Unfortunately, Tony didn't always get his way.

'I must say, Stark, your boy seems rather indifferent to your suffering. After _your_ touching display, I expected more. Maybe we should approach these lessons differently?

'Come on, Jorah… _open your eyes,_ ' Tony tried to sound exasperated, like he wasn't throwing those last words at Peter. Luckily, the kid caught on, and by the time Jorah had turned his head, Peter's eyes were wide open; Tony had to hand it to him, he had the tear-stained puppy-dog thing down. 'the kid's… basically an intern. Sure, I'm getting soft in my old age, I watch out for him. I watch out for everyone. But you can't expect him to actually _care_ about me too?' Tony wished he wasn't lying, wished he could honestly say the horror on Peter's face was feigned. They'd been through too much _not_ to care about each other. They were too alike not to feel each other's pain.

'Is that so?'

Peter shrugged, playing along. Jorah simply smiled, turning to glower at Tony.

'You're lying to me, Anthony.'

'What, you read minds? We could use that on our team, if you ever wanted to drop the… trafficking and the torturing. Not as lucrative maybe –' Tony kept rambling, even as their captor turned and walked away, leaving them alone in the dark once more.

Okay, so he hadn't predicted _that._

Now Jorah was gone, Tony desperately wanted to give in to the pain; once he let himself feel each shattered bone, his broken skin, it was all he could do not to cry out – but he wasn't alone.

'Mr Stark, you okay? You look… what did he do?'

'Enough I guess.' Tony laughed, wincing both at the pain and his shoddy attempt to lighten the mood, keep Peter calm.

'I think that's an understatement –'

'Not my style, kid, I'm fine. Now, we both know if you freak out, you're going to spas me out, and I'm going to freak you out some more, it's a whole thing, so… let's keep our shit together, capiche? Besides, the others will be back to put me under and patch me up, right? Ready for the next round.'

'My turn.' Peter said, and the tremor in his voice hit Tony like a missile – at least, the shrapnel from one (and yeah, he should know).

'Not going to happen, Pete, don't sweat it. By the time they fix me up I'll… come up with something, I promise.'

And he meant it.

But minutes passed, and no one came.

Then an hour.

And another.

And another.

Tony couldn't figure it out, and he was struggling not to spiral. Was this their punishment? He didn't have Peter's healing abilities, and he was worse than useless in this state. If nothing changed soon, any attempt at escape was dangerous at best. It was getting hard to stay conscious, for both of them, and Tony wasn't even sure if it was best to snatch whatever shut-eye they could or stay awake, alert (in theory).

Another hour passed.

They tried to pass the time. Took stock of their injuries. Went over everything they'd learned about their captors and surroundings, searching for a plan. They learnt the hard way that, unlike in the movies, dislocating your fingers didn't actually enable you to escape all potential shackle situations, that super-human strength usually up to stopping a bus required you to keep up with your super-human appetite (though admittedly that last was only applicable if you happened to be a super-human teenager). One thing Tony _did_ know was that they couldn't afford to just wait.

They didn't have much longer.

And God, he couldn't think straight.

Another hour passed.

Tony began to wish Jorah would come back. It had been at least two days since the bridge, since either of them had had anything to eat or drink, got any real sleep. More, judging by how quickly they were deteriorating.

Peter especially.

At least three days now, surely.

Four.

Still no one came.

Tony didn't panic. He didn't let himself consider that he may be forced to watch his kid rot, that they may have been completely abandoned. He didn't shred his vocal chords begging someone, anyone, to find them, to help Peter, and he _absolutely_ did not acknowledge the one concrete thought circling his brain, the one he could see behind Peter's blank face, too.

 _I wish I was dead._

No. He didn't acknowledge that at all.

 **First off, I'm so sorry for the wait, my hell-brain has been playing up, but I've figured out how I'm going to wrap this story up, so stay tuned just a bit longer! As always, let me know what you think.**

 **Also, if anyone wants to stop by and say hi, you can find me on tumblr and insta ceaselesslyborne :)**


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